


use the sleeves of my sweater, let's have an adventure

by fragileanimals



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: +1, 5 Times, F/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: Back in the engine room, he goes to her, more confidently this time. But still carefully, as though she's a wounded animal. Holding the jacket in his hands. Kneeling beside her, Cassian draws the material, dry and worn-soft, around Jyn's shoulders like a blanket.(Or, five times Jyn Erso wore Cassian Andor's clothing, and one time she didn't.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, obviously I'm a real hoe for the "5 Times + 1" trope. I just can't help myself. So, here we are again.

**one.**

Jyn doesn't look up when he comes in.

She doesn't move, doesn't indicate in any way that she's aware of his presence, outside of a nearly imperceptible tightening at the corner of her mouth, one that Cassian's unsure he hasn't simply imagined.

He tells himself he hadn't known she'd be in here, that he'd been making his rounds after entering hyperspace, but it's a flimsy excuse, even in his own mind. There’s no need for him to visit the engine compartment, yet here he is.

When he finds her, she's sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around herself. Her jaw is set, eyes red and fixed on her knees. Cassian thinks she might be the loneliest sight he’s ever seen.

Still, he hesitates to approach. Two instincts struggle within him, the first, to turn on his heel and allow her the privacy she so clearly desires, having sought out potentially the only empty corner of the small shuttle-- and the second, significantly more foreign, to sit beside her and, if not to comfort her, then to try to make amends.

He hadn’t taken the shot at her father directly, no. But he’d been thinking about what she said. _You might as well be a Stormtrooper._ He hadn’t taken the shot, but he had been the reason the Allied reinforcements had come bearing the explosives which had taken her Galen Erso’s life all the same. He would bear partial, if not full responsibility.

Finally, Cassian takes a cautious step in her direction. When it doesn’t appear that she’s going to spring to her feet and accost him -- always a real possibility with her -- he takes another. He moves closer, unwilling or perhaps simply unable to look directly at her -- it's like looking at the sun, white-hot and burning -- but even in his peripherals he can see that she's shivering. 

Her face is slick and wet, though from rain or tears he can't tell. He suspects it might be a bit of both-- her eyes are puffy, and her clothes are still soaked through from Eadu’s rain. 

It occurs to him that, though he’d had his spare change of clothes stowed in his bags, the Alliance plucked her from Wobani with only the shirt on her back.

 _She can take care of herself,_ he thinks, but it doesn't absolve him of the guilt that sits unhappily in his stomach as he watching her, curled around herself, still not looking at him. 

Suddenly, he knows the only thing he can do. 

He turns on his heel and walks out. 

Even as he goes, Cassian wants to shake his head at himself. He’s known Jyn Erso for what, two standard days, at most? So what is this strange fascination she provokes in him?

He doesn't know where he's headed until he's already back in the main area of the ship. He scans the room, until his eyes land on what he's searching for. Chirrut calls out to him as he crosses the room, something friendly, but he ignores it-- just grabs his jacket and walks back the way he came.

Back in the engine room, he goes to her, more confidently this time. But still carefully, as though she's a wounded animal. Holding the jacket in his hands. Kneeling beside her, Cassian draws the material, dry and worn-soft, around her shoulders like a blanket.

Jyn's head darts up in surprise. She doesn't say anything, just looks at him -- finally looks at him -- clearly startled. Her bright eyes, just inches from his own, are wide with pain, and the confusion in them as he arranges the collar about her neck might break his heart.

When was the last time someone had comforted her? 

Here in the half-light, with her dark eye pencil worn off, it's painfully apparent just how young she is. Not much younger than he is, certainly, but he'd had the good fortune --the privilege, really -- of growing up within the Alliance since the age of six, of forming a surrogate family. She's been alone for years.

Gently, he lifts one of her arms to slide it into the sleeve, then the other. She’s so small that it hangs off her, her hands enveloped by the sleeves. Her red-rimmed eyes search his face, but he's so sick with guilt that he can't meet her gaze very long; his own eyes drop to his feet. 

If he were a braver man, if he were a better man, he would tell her how sorry he is. For her father, for Eadu, for everything. But he isn't, so he doesn't.

Once he’s sure she’s comfortable -- or at least, more so than before -- he doesn't linger. He simply stands, abrupt, ignoring the way his knees crack the same way he’d ignored the tightening in his chest when she’d accepted his help without resistance.

He's on his way out when he hears it, so soft as to be nearly inaudible,

"Thanks."

Cassian doesn't turn around. He just stops, gives her a brief nod, and steps into the hall.

He's a long way from forgiveness, but at least he has somewhere to start.

 

**two.**

As the small enters Hoth's thin atmosphere, the ever-present blizzard howls around the ship, throwing snow at the windows with the unrelenting fury Jyn has come to expect on Echo Base. Visibility is especially poor tonight, and at the control’s Bodhi’s voice increases in both panic and volume as he attempts to secure the exact location of the landing pad from the ground crew. Usually this would be about when her heart would begin to climb into her throat-- but this time, however, Jyn hardly notices. 

Instead, her full attention is fixed on Cassian, whose head she cradles in her lap. His eyes are closed, cheeks pale, and her hands hover over him, wanting desperately to touch him, but too afraid.

He makes no noise and gives no indication of pain, but, if he’s still conscious, she thinks he must be in agony. He’s been shot no less than twice, once in the hip and once in the side. One shot, and a person might escape without major damage; two shots and those odds drop significantly. 

As soon as the ship rattles into the hangar, the side doors slide open with the harsh metal screech only they can produce. Someone -- Bodhi, she thinks -- had had the foresight to signal ahead of time, and now two medics, one human and one droid, burst into the main compartment.

Faster than she can blink, Cassian is taken from her. Their hands are gentle but insistent, and she fights down the instinct to knock them away. She removes herself, stands to the side as they lift him onto the stretcher, swallowing the protests that rise like bile in her throat, a bitter acknowledgement that there are some things that she simply cannot do for him.

She watches until he's out of sight, then stays rooted in place until Baze rests a hand on her arm, says, “Time to go, little sister.”

On her way down the ramp, she’s not watching her feet, and stumbles over something bulky that’s been left in her path. She swears and looks down to see what it is, only to find Cassian’s heavy coat at her feet.

She stares at it for a moment before reaching down to pick it up. It’s flecked with blood and ice, but she buries her face in the soft hood nonetheless, soaking in the smell -- his smell, machine oil and clean dirt. Then, the bite of Hoth’s wind already pinching at her skin, she slips it on over her own thinner coat. This way, she she won’t forget to return it to him.

\--

She stands at the entrance to the medbay until they send her away.

“It will be hours yet before the Captain is out of surgery,” a medical droid tells her, impassive, for the third time. “You are blocking the entrance.”

“You should get some rest,” says a passing human medical officer -- one she knows, a woman by the name of Dasha -- more gently. “We’ll find you when he’s stable.”

Jyn nods at the woman and scowls at the droid, but eventually takes their advice, wandering back to her bunk on tired legs. She punches in the code and lies down on the thin sheets, boots, coat, and all, though she’s certain she won’t manage a wink of sleep. Nevertheless, Cassian’s coat is warm and softer than she’d imagined, and she burrows further into it, briefly closing her eyes.

\--

The knock at the door startles Jyn awake again; she springs from the narrow cot in one fluid motion, crosses the room to yank open the door without checking to see who it is.

It’s a medical droid, the one from earlier.

“Cassian--” she starts.

“He is awake,” the droid smoothly cuts her off. “He is awake and asking after you. It was requested that I locate you and inform you of his stable condition.”

Jyn releases a slow breath, feeling relief balloon in her chest. It makes her feel slightly foolish -- it isn’t as though she had thought he would die, she chides herself. It would take more than two measly blaster bolts to take Cassian out of commission for good.

“Take me to him,” she says, too quickly. 

The droid turns on its mechanical heel, and she follows it out. 

It has at least a foot on her in height, and she nearly has to jog just to keep up with its long strides. This makes the already-overworked muscles in her legs ache, but she’s too proud to slow down. 

She is deposited without another at the door to one of the small cubicles serving as individual rooms. She can see the edge of Cassian’s shape on the bed, yet still she hesitates just outside a moment, strangely unsure.

Then, Cassian’s voice. “I can see you, Jyn,” he calls, sounding weary but amused. “Quit hovering and come in.”

She snorts, cracking a smile despite herself. Then, stuffing her hands in her pockets, she makes a show of ambling into the room, as though she has all the times in the world.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, easily. Taking care not to jostle him, she leans against the edge of his bed. “Come here often?”

“More often than I’d like,” he says, wryly. He's still pale, and his words are slower than usual, a side effect of whatever they're giving him for the pain, she supposes. But he's awake -- he'd been alert enough to ask for her -- and that's more than she could have asked for. 

There’s a pause, where he just looks at her. Takes her in, head cocked in apparent consideration. 

“What?” Jyn asks, suddenly self-conscious. She swipes at the side of her mouth. Had she drooled in her sleep?

Something like a smile hovers at the edges of his lips. 

“That looks familiar,” he finally says, gesturing to her person.

She frowns at him, confused. Then, looking down,

“Oh,” she says. “Right.”

She’s still wearing his coat.

“I was cold,” she says, slightly sheepish. Her cheeks warm, and she makes a move to shrug it from her shoulders, but he shakes his head. 

“No, keep it,” he says, with a little smile. “I don’t need it right now, anyway.”

It’s true. Though the rest of Echo Base is frigid on the best of days, the medbay is always slightly warmer. Which makes sense, Jyn supposes. You wouldn’t want to bring an injured soldier in from battle only to have him die of frostbite. 

She pulls the coat tighter around herself anyway, feeling the knot that’s been in her stomach since she’d seen him fall earlier loosen slightly.

She shifts closer to him. At this distance, just a foot or two, she can see in perfect detail the harsh scrapes running down the right side of his face, remnants of contact with the ground. They’ve been cleaned, are no longer bleeding, but the angry red lines remain, in sharp contrast to the white of the pillows.

He watches her, trusting, as she reaches out to run her thumb along one particularly nasty scratch. She keeps her touch light; his eyes flicker when her hands work their way into his hair, tangled and sweat-stiff from battle.

“You’d better get some bacta on that.” Her voice comes out softer than she expected, and she clears her throat to attempt a more neutral tone. “Otherwise, it’ll scar.”

Cassian lifts his shoulders in a weak shrug. “Waste of bacta,” he says, dryly. “It’s just going to happen again.”

Jyn huffs. He may be right, but that shouldn’t keep him from basic self-care. Or so she’s told him time and time again, commentary that has unsurprisingly fallen on deaf ears. She decides to cut him a break this time, though, and refrain this once from nagging about it.

They fall into easy silence; her hand rests on the side of his face like it belongs there, and within minutes his eyes begin to droop.

“You should get some rest,” she says, eventually, dropping her own eyes to the floor, then back up. “I should go.”

He looks like he wants to protest, and she takes her hand from his face, gently presses him back into the pillow by the shoulder. She sees his lips whiten when even that small movement tugs at his injuries.

“I’ll come back in the morning,” she says, standing.

“I’ll be out of here by morning,” he assures, and if he didn’t sound so damn tired, she might have believed him.

She just raises an eyebrow, with a noncommittal hum. "I'll leave the coat in your quarters,” she says.

“No rush,” he replies. 

She nods, turning to head toward the door.

A pause. Then,  
"Jyn?"

She stops, turns back to look at him. "Yes?" 

Cassian has a strange expression on his face, a small smile that both makes her heart do a funny little thump and also causes her to wonder what private joke she’s missing out on. She’s seen that look more frequently in recent weeks, but is no closer to parsing out its meaning.

“It looks good on you,” he says, finally.

For a moment she says nothing, her face carefully blank. Then, as his words find a home in her, she twists her fingers into the sleeves of his coat, unable to keep the answering smile from her face.

 

**three.**

Just as Jyn’s about to slip into sleep, Cassian’s voice interrupts the quiet dark. 

She feels the vibration in his body when he says her name, her head resting comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. Her body heavy and warm, legs tangled with his under the sheets. The first time he says her name, she ignores it, too content to muster a response, hoping whatever he wants can wait until morning.

However, when she doesn’t respond, he says it again, a little louder this time,  
“Jyn.”

Apparently, there is no fooling a spy.

Jyn releases a barely-audible sigh. “Hm?” she murmurs, into his shirt, without opening her eyes.

“Your feet are freezing,” he says, without inflection.

“Hm,” she says, again, pressing closer. The more he tries to shift away, the tighter she clings. “That’s unfortunate,” she says, feeling him fight a shiver, and grins. “They feel perfectly warm to me.”

“They’re warm,” he says, “because you’re stealing my body heat, you thief.”

She yawns, wide and obnoxious, still not opening her eyes. “Sorry.”

“This is the part where you take them off my leg,” he says, after a beat, when she still doesn’t move.

“Uh-huh,” she says, agreeable, remaining exactly where she is. “I’m sure it is.”

There’s a pause. Then,  
“I knew we should’ve left you on Wobani,” Cassian grumps.

At this, Jyn laughs outright. Coming from anyone else, she might have taken offense, but she already knows, thanks to information wheedled out of Senator Mothma, that it had been Cassian who had argued for her usefulness, for her release from the prison camp, before he had even known her. And if he had only then thought of her as a means to an end at that time, well. The outcome had been the same.

“Without me, Saw would’ve shot you on sight,” she says, sweetly. “You’d be long dead.”

“He might have listened,” Cassian argues, trying to scoot away again.

“Mm, whatever helps you sleep at night,” she says, her cold feet following him.

Cassian mumbles something she can’t quite make out, but that sounds suspiciously like, _“Not you,”_ and rolls out of bed. 

She frowns, stretches out across the mattress, reaching for him. Nights on Echo Base are _cold_ , even in the living quarters.

“Where’re you going?” she asks.

He snorts, then heads to the single small dresser on the opposite side of the room. With a groan, she props herself up on one elbow, watching as he rifles through the top drawer.

He returns, dropping a bundle unceremoniously in her lap.

“What’s this?” she asks, squinting in the dark. She shivers, the blanket having slipped down to her waist. _This blasted planet_ , she thinks.

“Socks,” he says, dryly, standing by the side of the bed. “Put them on.”

“I have my own socks, you know,” she informs him.

He crosses his arms. “I am not getting back in bed unless you put on them on,” he says, firmly. “Either those, or yours.”

She shoots him a look, unballing the socks. “Is this really necessary?”

When he doesn’t reply, she heaves a sigh. Knowing this is an argument she won’t win -- he’ll sleep on the floor if he has to, and neither of them want that -- she sits up to jam the socks on her feet. They’re heavy-knit and several sizes too big, and come up past the middle of her shins.

Jyn shoves her feet in his direction, wiggles her toes in the socks. “Happy now?”

Apparently satisfied, Cassian pulls back the covers, sliding back into the narrow bed. He winds an arm around her waist, dragging her close again. “Very.”

She lays her head on his arm once more, settling in. When she twines her legs between his, he makes no complaint, and she sighs again, this time in contentment. Her eyes slide closed of their own accord, and she tucks her head under his chin, seeking out that warm place where she can feel the pulse in his neck beat against her cheek. 

He’s silent for a few moments. Then,

“Jyn?”

“Yes?”

“Your nose is frigid.”

 

**four.**

Over the years, Jyn has developed a remarkable tolerance for physical pain. It is something she takes a strange pride in, though it is not as much her doing as it is Saw's-- both the training she received as a part of his cadre and his eventual abandonment had taught her everything she needed to know, from cleaning and binding wounds to sewing them up herself. She's even reset a fair number of dislocated shoulders, in her day. In another life, in a kinder life, she might have been a healer. 

Still, being stabbed always hurts more than she thinks it will, she thinks, as she lies on the floor of the shuttle.

Possibly, this is because she simply has less experience with blades rather than blasters and truncheons; her pride suggests that her superior skills in hand-to-hand combat have largely prevented opportunities for such a close-range attack.

That's not to say the occasional stabbing hasn't worked its way in, here and there. She has a long pink scar across her right hip from a particularly grueling training session with Saw, and another, shallower cut just under her collarbone. She still feels satisfaction when she thinks of the would-be mugger's face when she had pulled out her truncheons. He had expected a damsel. 

Cassian had not liked that story when she told it to him, as they had lain quietly in bed one night, his hands drifting over her bare skin. But he more than anyone should have known that there are no pleasant stories for any of these lasting marks on their bodies, only triumphant ones. 

Cassian, whose face hovers above hers now, smudged with blood and dirt, comes in and out of focus like she’s looking through a bad pair of binocs. Still, she can read the fear in his face quite plainly; he looks as grave as she’s ever seen him, no trace of the usual spark in his dark brown eyes. For some reason -- probably the blood loss -- it makes her want to smile.

He’s working at her leg now, as Bodhi navigates the ship into atmo. 

He murmurs something under his breath, too low for her to hear. In one fluid motion, he sits back on his heels, peeling off his jacket and shirt, so that he’s left in only his undershirt. Holding the shirt up for her to see,

“I’m going to use this as a temporary tourniquet,” he says. “Just until we can get you checked out. It might hurt,” he warns.

“Already does,” she says, managing a breathless little laugh. But _Force_ , it hurts-- throbs, really, with every beat of her heart, the jagged edges of the wound burning with a singular fury. She’d give her left arm right about now for some bacta numb, or even just a swig of Dodbri whiskey. And yet, she’s had worse, she reminds herself.

“Stay with me,” Cassian says, the lines about his mouth taught as he wraps the fabric around her thigh, just above the gash. Slowly, he begins to tighten it, glancing up at her face every few seconds. 

Jyn grits her teeth as the shirt's material closes painfully on her leg.

Finally, satisfied with the tightness, he ties the makeshift tourniquet off. 

"It's done," he says. Then, "Did he get you anywhere else?"

"Don't think so," she says, closing her eyes briefly. The combination of the pain in her leg, the motion of the ship and the blood loss she's sustained is making her increasingly dizzy. She might feel at risk of spinning off into space, if not for his steady hand in hers.

He leans in. “Hang on, Jyn,” he says, low. “Stay with me.” Though he is very close, his voice sounds strange to her, both slowed down and very far away.

Despite the throbbing in her leg, she manages a snort. “Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Andor,” she says, eyes sliding closed again.

“Hey, stay awake,” he says, gently shaking her shoulder. “Eyes on me.”

With effort, she forces her lids open. She can feel herself growing more and more tired with each passing second; the blood soaking her pant leg is beginning to pool wetly under her.

 _I’m trying_ , she wants to tell him, but she can’t seem to make her throat cooperate. All that comes out is a quiet rasp, her vocal cords rubbing the wrong way. Then, instead of speaking, she tries to nod, but Cassian takes this as an indication of pain, and brings his hand to the side of her head, holding her still.

“A little longer,” he says. “Just a little while longer, Jyn.”

She tries to give him a reassuring smile-- but, judging by his reaction, it must be a worse sight than she’d intended.

The ship spins around her, and she slams her eyes shut once more. She hears Cassian speak to her again, but the words are garbled, and she can’t make them out. She wants to, but the pull of unconsciousness is so sweet.

She falls asleep. Cassian has her. She is safe.

 

**five.**

Cassian's just stepping out of the sonic when he hears Jyn's frustrated growl, loud enough to carry through the closed refresher door. It's not a sound unfamiliar to him, but he's been hearing it increasingly, lately.

He pokes his head out the door, only a towel about his waist.

"Jyn?" he says. "You all right?"

She huffs a sigh. She’s standing in the middle of their quarters, in just her underwear and a sleep shirt, frowning at a pair of pants in her hands.

"Jyn?"

"I'm fine," she says, testily. "It's just--" She pauses to give the fabric in her hands a snap. “These pants don't fit anymore."

A smile crosses his face, but he makes sure all trace of it is gone by the time she looks back at him. He’s not laughing at her predicament, necessarily. It’s just struck him, once again, that she’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

"What?" she asks, impatiently, and he realizes he's staring.

"Just give me a second," he says. "I'll be right out."

She makes a noncommittal noise, which he takes as an agreement, as he often does. 

Quickly, he pulls his on his shirt and pants, unable to keep the small smile from his face. He'll have to scrub it from his face again before walking back into the room, lest he face Jyn's wrath, but for now he allows the warm feeling that settles in his chest.

It had been a surprise, finding out about the baby. But a surprise of the best kind-- one of the best of his life, second only to the moment on Scarif's beach that he opened his eyes to see not death, but a shuttle waiting to rescue them.

Realistically, he knows neither of them are ideal parenting material. He had been so young when his own parents had been killed, and despite the Alliance doing its tag-team best to raise a young orphan in wartime, he'd never really had strong parental figures, necessarily. She, of course, had had her parents longer than he, but not by much. 

Thus, he has a some idea of what might be required to raise a child, but nothing beyond the blurry shape of it, nothing distinct. He has a few months yet to figure it out, but he’s terrified. He’s elated. He’s terrified, all over again.

He slips back into the room, sliding his hand along Jyn’s waist as he goes past to reach the dresser. Even through the shirt, she’s warm beneath his touch, and, as always, practically humming with life. Some women grow more tired when carrying a baby; her energy seems to have doubled, if not tripled. But, that’s Jyn.

"Try these,” he says, plucking a messily-folded pair of sleep pants from the top drawer and passing them to her.

She takes them, somewhat grudgingly. “So this is what I’ve been reduced to,” she says, leaning against the bedpost for balance. He’d learned early on not to offer his assistance too easily-- she doesn’t like to be babied, and especially not now. She pulls them on. “Having to wear _your_ pants.” 

“Well, technically, not _reduced_.” It slips out before he can stop it, and he braces, half-expecting to get punched.

Instead, she shoots him a dark look. “Watch it.” Then, grumbling, “I have half a mind to go to the council and demand they put out some sort of limited maternity line.”

Cassian snorts. “Better not,” he says, wry. “That would just encourage more… _interaction_ within the ranks.”

It’s not that the other soldiers don’t already sleep with one another-- they do. It’s a good way to relieve tension, if nothing else, he thinks. But it’s also well understood that any unintended results of those interactions are to be gotten rid of, dealt with quickly and quietly. Someone carrying a pregnancy to full term, that’s rare, practically unheard of. 

But, again, that’s Jyn.

He had been in the medical bay with her when the option had been given to her to terminate. It hadn’t even been presented as an option, more of an inevitability, _when would you like to schedule your appointment_ ; she hadn’t even been showing yet, but she’d physically recoiled, one hand over her lower abdomen. As if they might take it from her without her consent. The look in her eyes isn’t one he’s likely to forget.

Cassian still suspects Draven resents losing one of his better soldiers to what essentially amounts to desk duty, but, quite honestly, he couldn’t care less. Making the galaxy safe for life, _new life_ \-- that’s the entire purpose of the Rebellion, isn’t it? And if this new life had come along a bit sooner than expected, well. Not everything can be planned and strategized and carried out with precision. That is something he’s learned from Jyn. Sometimes, he just has to do what he thinks is best, what he thinks is _right_ , and let the pieces fall where they may. He’s happy where his pieces have fallen, mixed in with hers.

“Better?” Cassian asks, when she straightens up, smoothing the lines of the pant legs. He’d never admit it, but it does something to him, seeing her in his clothes.

“Better,” she admits, with a little wry smile. 

He moves in close, resting one hand at her waist, one playing with the hem of her shirt. Under it, he can just feel the swell of her stomach, smooth and round against his fingertips. A little electric shiver runs through him. They have only a few months to go, now. A few months until they meet this child, this tiny person that they have made.

If anyone had told him two years ago that he’d be here, in the quarters he shares on Hoth -- _Hoth_ , of all places -- with a girl expecting his baby, he might have decked them. He most certainly would’ve walked away, unable to picture himself -- soldier, killer, spy -- in a position so infinitely domestic, so terribly vulnerable. 

Until Jyn, there had only been the work. The Alliance. The day-in-day-out pain, and fear, and occasional victory. It had been important, no doubt, the most important thing he had ever done, but none of that compares to what he has now to protect; it is only through this lens that he can truly comprehend the magnitude of all these things he’s done, what they mean on a galactic scale as well as an intimately personal one. He’s always been a man without a family, and he hadn’t understood what it meant.

Jyn’s voice brings him out of his thoughts. “You in there?” she finally asks, softer than before.

He blinks, realizing he’s staring past her, over her shoulder. Fiddling with the hem of her shirt, he searches for something, anything to say that might put his thoughts in order. He opens his mouth to reply-- but then stops short, noticing the faded logo on her left breast pocket.

"Hey,” he says, squinting. “Is this my shirt, too?" She has plenty of her own Alliance-issue shirts, of course, but he recognizes this one, the small tear in the left shoulder from a blaster graze. 

Jyn gives him a mischievous smile, winding her arms around his neck. “What’s yours is mine, right?”

“I don’t remember that in the contract,” he says, hands drifting to her waist.

“Oh, it was in there,” she says, mirth in her wide green eyes. “You must not have read it thoroughly enough.”

She shifts even closer to him, as close as she can get, all things considered. One of his hands works its way to the elastic band of the sleep pants, while the other comes up to cradle the back of her head, tangling in her hair.

“Hm,” he says, their faces a hair’s breadth apart. “Interesting.”

After a brief pause, she tips her head up to him; he tilts his down. When their lips meet, she releases a little sigh against his mouth, leaning into him, and Cassian thinks he could die right here, right now, and not be the least bit resentful over it.

If all these things he’s done for the cause of the Rebellion have led him here, to this moment, he thinks, then they had been worth it. They had been more than worth it, every last one, every terrible and vicious act he’s performed in the dark, every good and noble one -- a significantly shorter list -- he’s attempted in the light. They had been worth it because Jyn is worth it. 

And she’ll continue to be worth it, and the baby will, too, when it comes. And he’ll work every day to deserve his second chance.

Jyn’s mouth opens under his, soft and alive, and he loses all capacity for further self-reflection. There is only her arms around him, and his heart beating in his chest, and nothing more. 

Everything is as it should be.

It’s not long at all before his pants end up back on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this. As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥
> 
> Also, if you want to come talk about Rogue One, I'm jynersq on tumblr!


End file.
